How far would Elaine go in search of attention, thinks Ruth. Dressing up in a mask and robe? Burning down a house?

‘Do you know anything about a group called the White Hand?’ she asks.

‘No,’ says Susan. ‘Who are they?’ Her gaze is clear and almost child-like. But Susan is a highly intelligent woman.

Ruth smiles back. ‘It’s not important. Do you want some more egg-fried rice?’

CHAPTER 27

On Monday morning, Cathbad leaves promptly at nine. He feels rather guilty at abandoning Ruth, but as he turns out of Beach Row he sees a huge gas-guzzling monster car pulling up at Number One. That must be Ruth’s university friend. He’s glad that she’s got some company but he can’t really see what Ruth would have in common with a woman who drives a car like that. They are spending the day at a water park, something else that Cathbad finds quite inexplicable. Why go indoors with artificial rapids and fake waterfalls when you have the sea on your doorstep? Kate will like it, Ruth had said, but Kate had liked playing on the beach with him, building a henge, collecting shells and driftwood, watching the tide retreat so quickly that the sand had glistened like a mirage. She’s not your child, he tells himself, something he finds himself having to do several times a day. She’s Ruth’s daughter, and if Ruth wants to take her to a water park, that’s up to her. After all, isn’t he the one who has said he will take her to Nickelodeon World, that vast plastic pleasure ground? Is he only doing it to be popular with Kate? Of course he is.

He drives carefully along the dual carriageway, Thing at his side. The solicitor may be surprised at his turning up with a dog in tow but he could hardly leave the animal alone for the day. Besides, he likes Thing’s company. He can see why Pendragon called him his familiar, there is something accepting about a dog that’s very comforting when your thoughts are in turmoil. Cathbad likes cats but they are more judgemental somehow. He imagines that Flint would just tell him to pull himself together and break open the Go-Cat.

And his thoughts are in turmoil. Pendragon’s face and his ghastly swinging body haunt his dreams (despite the soothing ballet wallpaper). Why did he do it? Why hadn’t he confided in Cathbad? Again and again, Cathbad wonders if he could have been more understanding that day when he visited Pendragon. He’d known his friend was worried about something, why hadn’t he tried harder to find out what it was? Was Pendragon so terrified of the White Hand that he’d killed himself rather than face their vengeance? Cathbad had been shocked at the evidence of Pendragon’s involvement with the Neo-pagan group. He still can’t accept that his gentle friend believed in all that rubbish about the supremacy of the white Norseman. After all, Pendragon had lived in Ireland. He must, surely, have had some sympathy with the Celtic gods too. Cathbad has always believed that one of the good things about being a pagan was that you didn’t have to settle for one narrow set of beliefs but could choose from a cornucopia of mysteries. But it seems that Pendragon had chosen the narrowest path of all.

They reach Clitheroe at ten. It’s a bustling market town, built on steep cobbled streets, overlooked by a magnificent castle. On any other occasion Cathbad would have enjoyed strolling around, absorbing the energies of the place. But today he feels that he is on business. He is even wearing what is almost a jacket. He puts the lead on Thing and walks sedately along the high street. It’s almost like working in a bank.

The solicitors, J. Arthur Wagstaff, are housed in a reassuringly uncorporate building, a quaint little house with a bow window like a Victorian sweetshop. Cathbad feels his spirits beginning to rise. The receptionist doesn’t even blanch at Thing (or Cathbad’s jacket). She ushers them into an office and tells them that Stephanie will be with them shortly. For the first time Cathbad realises that the S. Evans mentioned by Pen’s sister is actually a woman. He chastises himself for such sexist assumptions. Ruth would be horrified.

To complicate matters further, Stephanie Evans is extremely attractive. She has red hair, which gleams seductively against her black dress. She reminds Cathbad of Ruth’s friend Shona. Her accent is pure Lancashire. Cathbad leans forward so as not to miss a word. What she tells him is almost as interesting as the glimpse of cleavage with which he is rewarded. Dame Alice’s cottage was rented but Pendragon has left its contents in their entirety to Cathbad. He has also left him his savings, a surprisingly healthy sum. Pendragon also asked his friend to care take of his dog.

‘I see you’re already doing that,’ says Stephanie warmly.

‘It seemed the right thing to do,’ says Cathbad.

There are a couple of legacies to Pendragon’s sister, Margot, and to local charities. Most interesting of all is a donation to a local neurological centre.

‘I understand they were treating him,’ says Stephanie.

‘Treating him?’

Stephanie looks at him in surprise and concern.

‘Didn’t you know? Pendragon had a brain tumour. Inoperable apparently. He thought that he only had a few months left to live.’

Cathbad leaves the solicitors’ office in a daze. This revelation sheds a new light on Pendragon’s suicide. And, in retrospect, the headaches and the herbal infusions are also explained. Did the tumour contribute to Pendragon’s feelings of persecution and isolation? Or was he, simply, afraid of dying? Did he ask Dame Alice for help, wonders Cathbad, remembering the garden and the raven in the apple tree. It’s possible that Pendragon acted not out of fear but out of a desire to be master of his own fate. But then Cathbad remembers his friend’s contorted face as he cut him down from the beam. If he’d wanted an easy death he would have taken a gentle poison handpicked from the hedgerows. He would have lain down in Dame Alice’s herb garden and waited for nightfall. No, that’s not the way it happened.

He is so preoccupied that he gets tangled in Thing’s lead and has to stop to extricate himself. As he does so he sees, above a shop, a name that looks vaguely familiar. R. Wade and Sons, Estate Agents.

‘Come on, Thing,’ he says. ‘We’ve got another call to make.’

*

Halfway through the morning Sandy Macleod gets an unexpected visitor.

‘Lady to see you, boss,’ says the duty sergeant.

‘Lady?’ says Sandy, heaving himself up from his chair. ‘I don’t know any ladies.’

‘This is definitely a lady,’ says the sergeant.

And the sergeant is right. Pippa Henry, sitting in the reception area wearing a black dress, white cardigan and pearls, looks every inch a lady. In fact, Sandy muses, ushering her through the swing doors with a low ironical bow, it’s almost too good a performance. Who wears a black dress and pearls on an August morning in Blackpool? She looks like that woman in that film, what was it called? Something about Tiffany’s. Bev would know.

Anyway, it’s distinctly interesting, her coming to call like this, all dressed up. It means she wants to impress him, maybe even influence him. Why?

‘Coffee?’ he asks, showing her into his office.

‘That would be lovely.’

That’s what you think, Sandy tells her silently. He dispatches a WPC for coffee and Kit Kats.

‘So,’ he says, sitting opposite and pushing some papers onto the floor. ‘You wanted to see me.’

‘Yes.’

Pippa Henry looks straight at him. She’s really a very good-looking woman, thinks Sandy. Mid-forties probably, there are fine lines around her mouth and eyes but the overall impression is shiny and expensive. Her dark gold hair is in a bun and she sits up very straight, without fidgeting, a rare thing in a woman. Poise, thinks Sandy, that’s what she has. Poise. He leans forward and sniffs. Chanel number 5. He might have guessed. Pippa recoils slightly.